


I Have Measured Out My Life in Coffee Spoons

by noxlee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Coffee, Cowboy Hats, Episode: s13e06 Tombstone, Fluff, Hugs, M/M, POV Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxlee/pseuds/noxlee
Summary: Dean lowers his gun, his eyes darting around the room. His hair is sleep-mussed and flat on one side, and his stubble has grown in darker overnight. His eyes are blurry as they scan the room, but they brighten just a little when they land on Castiel.“Who’s making me coffee?” Dean groans, as he rolls over and tucks his gun away. His voice is low and hoarse with sleep, and he buries his face in his pillow in a huff.A 13x06 coda.





	I Have Measured Out My Life in Coffee Spoons

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from one of my favourite poems, T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." 
> 
> Many thanks to [braezenkitty](https://braezenkitty.tumblr.com) and [idatheactivist](http://idatheactivist.tumblr.com) for the speedy beta read!

Castiel flinches as Jack bursts into the bedroom. As expected, Dean does not respond well to being jolted awake. Although he knows Jack can't be hurt by bullets, Castiel still scowls when Dean pulls the gun from under his pillow and aims it at Jack.

Dean has not always been such a deep sleeper. After Castiel pulled him from hell all those years ago, Dean hadn't slept well at all. He almost always slept fully clothed and often left his boots on as well. Castiel hadn't realized straightaway that this had been unusual behaviour. He himself didn't need sleep, and while he understood well enough that it was a human requirement, he hadn't fully appreciated all the rituals of nightfall.

Castiel had watched Dean sleep many times in those early years. Despite Dean's protests that it was creepy, Castiel found it exceedingly difficult at times to stay away. He tried, he really did, but then Dean would call out to him in his dreams. The fear, the agony– it ripped at something inside of Castiel that he hadn't even known existed. And so he went to Dean when he could, and watched him sleep as he infused him with soft tendrils of his grace and soothed the nightmares as best he was able. It was the beginning of a long, complicated tangle in which Dean would say one thing, while his thoughts, his dreams, his soul would scream another.

“It’s me!” Jack shouts, as he raises his hands, his eyes wide. He looks terrified, like he half expects Dean to pull the trigger.

Dean lowers his gun, his eyes darting around the room. His hair is sleep-mussed and flat on one side, and his stubble has grown in darker overnight. His eyes are blurry as they scan the room, but they brighten just a little when they land on Castiel.

“Who’s making me coffee?” Dean groans, as he rolls over and tucks his gun away. His voice is low and hoarse with sleep, and he buries his face in his pillow in a huff.

Right, coffee. Castiel sets to work measuring the grounds into the filter, and filling the carafe with water. This, he can do. If he is useful in nothing else, at least he can make coffee for Dean. He first learned how to brew a pot when he was human and working at the Gas & Sip. That had been where he’d had his first taste as well, making every effort to blend in with the humans around him who all consumed the rich, hot liquid like it was some sort of magical elixir. Which really, Castiel supposed it was, if its effects on Dean in the mornings were any indication.

Castiel often brewed coffee for Dean at the bunker when they were between cases and mornings were a slow, lazy affair. Those were the nights when Dean slept soundest—when there were no cases to worry about, no apocalypse looming, no monster on the horizon. Over the years, Dean had begun to shed his layers when he went to bed, and since Castiel’s time as a human, he had come to understand that clothes were an odd sort of protection. When you went to sleep scared, not knowing when you’d need to wake quickly and defend yourself, it was safest not to get too comfortable.

That’s why Castiel smiles fondly at Dean as he shuffles into the kitchenette wearing only his t-shirt and boxers. He pours himself a cup of coffee and collapses onto the small sofa that squeaks under his weight. Dean looks rumpled and sleepy, but well. He’s relaxed and whole– he feels safe, Castiel realizes. Comfortable and happy. So happy. It warms Castiel’s heart, even as he feels a small, sharp sting somewhere at the realization that Dean has managed just fine without him in the time since Castiel has been in the Empty.

_There’s nothing for you back there._

Castiel shrugs the feeling off and turns his attention to Sam who has announced that he and Jack will be going to the graveyard, while Castiel and Dean are to “hit up” the crime scene.

“Works for me,” Dean says, and Castiel stands to go. But Dean stares him down. He points to his coffee, raises a finger in warning, and Castiel sinks back into his seat in silent resignation.

Sam and Jack leave, and then it’s just the two of them. Dean slurps his coffee loudly. A long moment of silence passes, but it’s comfortable and familiar and Castiel sinks happily into it.

Another loud slurp pulls his attention back to Dean. He’s staring at him over the rim of his mug with a calculating look.

“What?” Castiel asks.

“Nothing.” Dean clears his throat, stands, and stretches. His t-shirt lifts to show a sliver of his belly. It’s trimmer than Castiel remembers, and he misses the softness of before. He’ll suggest they stop for a proper lunch today and find a burger joint somewhere.

Castiel’s jarred out of his thoughts as Dean starts ambling closer to him. He’s so close now that Castiel has to look up from where he’s sitting to meet Dean’s gaze.

“Dean?”

“Missed you, Cas,” Dean mutters. His voice has gone soft and so low that Castiel can barely hear him. Then Dean’s arm is wrapping around him, and Castiel is shocked to find himself pulled into an awkward sort of half-hug, his face pressed to Dean’s middle. All he can smell is coffee and Dean. Dean ruffles his hair, and then, apropos of nothing, there are lips– Dean’s lips– pressing warm and firm onto his head, just above his temple. It’s lightning fast and Dean pulls back, disentangling himself and walking away before Castiel can even process what’s happened.

He catches a brief glimpse of Dean’s reddening face before he turns away, though the evidence is clear in the blush that spreads to the back of his neck.

“We gotta get you a hat, Cas,” Dean says to the opposite wall as he returns his mug to the coffee maker.

“A hat?”

“Yeah. Cowboy hat,” Dean calls from the bedroom where he’s he’s retreated to pull on proper clothes. “We gotta blend, dude. I saw they were selling some in that gift shop we passed, we’ll get you one on the way out.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. It’s stupid, and pointless, and completely, ridiculously absurd.

Dean emerges with his own cowboy hat and boots and a grin that lights up the whole room. It’s beautiful. Castiel resolves to get the stupid hat, if only to keep the smile on Dean’s face a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is much appreciated! :)


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